The End of Ends
by ellerean
Summary: Generations pass, and our friends grow up and pass on, but the Branded still remain.
1. chapter 1

Soren leans against the nearest tree, satisfied in the feel of rough bark against his back. His eyes close as he arches his neck, the sharp texture of the trunk stabbing the crown of his head. It is slightly painful. Good.

The small sack he has been clutching drops to the ground with an audible _thud_. There isn't much in there anymore; he hopes to find civilization soon if he plans to eat. Beyond that, there is no concrete plan. It has been years, decades even, since he traveled the land. He isn't even completely sure where he is anymore. Not that it matters.

He slides down the length of the tree trunk, slowly, the bark snagging at his robes on the way. The act provides a throbbing, satisfying back scratch, and Soren is mildly disappointed when he reaches the ground. It is soft, the land beneath him, and mossy. Dawn is soon approaching. He has little desire to travel during daylight hours; he knows at least that he is moving southward, which means it will grow continually warmer the farther he goes.

_Dawn_, he muses, chuckling to himself. _The word _still_ reminds me of that war._

He picks at the knotted sack beside him, the old, red fabric threadbare with age. Not the best means of carrying provisions, he knows, but the only thing he could think of at the time. Not a sentimental man by any means, but it would be rude to leave with absolutely nothing. _He_ would have wanted that much, at least, if…

Soren shrugs, shaking his head violently to rid himself of the thought. That was the whole purpose of leaving—to forget.

He nibbles at a strip of dried meat, not particularly hungry but not stupid enough to travel on an empty stomach. He cautiously eyes a squirrel nearing his food, who paws at the edges of the unraveled sack.

"Get out!" he yelps, quite unexpectedly, projecting his dried meat at the squirrel. It scurries away and Soren scrambles to gather the sack and its contents. Idiot squirrel could _have_ the food. He doesn't care. But the blasted rodent had touched the sack, and it brought up that same emotion he tried so painfully to suppress.

_Sentimental fool_, he thinks to himself, mindlessly rubbing the fabric between thumb and forefinger.

Just as he settles to nap, the ground shakes with the approach of hooves. Grumbling, clutching his cloak tighter around his shoulders, he hopes the traveler will ignore him. He should know better.

"Ho! Traveler!" The horse stops mere yards from his resting place; Soren is grateful that he does not hear the sound of boots hitting the earth. Luckily, this conversation will not last long. "Need some help, lad?"

Lad? If only he knew.

"Are you okay?" The traveler asks, squinting down at him.

"I'm fine," Soren replies, deadpan.

"Where are you headed? Need a lift?"

"No." Soren peeks up at the man though half-closed eyes, who does not look much better than he feels. He must have been traveling some time; his clothes, once fine, are caked with dirt and dust. A cheap blade is slung across his back, though Soren doubts he knows how to use it. He wonders if it is even metal.

"Well, maybe you can help me," the man says, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm on my way to Melior." Soren cringes. Figures. "I'm pretty sure it's east of here, but I don't really know the way."

"East?" Soren sits up, rubbing the feeling into his hands. "This is Crimea?" Impossible.  
>"No," the man replies, hesitantly. "We're in Daein. Near Fort Nox."<p>

"You have a poor sense of direction," Soren mutters.

"What was that?"

"I don't know the way."

The man tips his hat, clutching tighter on his horse's reins. "Thanks anyway, lad. Good luck to you." Soren is grateful when he departs, feeling no remorse for his lack of proper directions.

He forces himself to wake before the sun sets. His grumbling stomach is a friendly reminder that he still needs to stock up on provisions. At some point, he wound up hugging the red sack during his nap. He presses his nose against it, a comforting, familiar scent still present in the fabric. He knows it will not last long.

"Pull yourself together," he mutters, standing up. He straightens the cloak around his shoulders and, pulling the knot on the sack tighter, continues moving southward.

It is ridiculous, he knows, the way he is acting. The years have softened his bitterness, the glorious time away from the influence of other people. Annoying people, that is. Which, let us be honest, is most everyone.

He remembers suddenly what the traveler said—he is outside Fort Nox. He lifts his face to the sky, tracing the line of the trees with his vision. Of course. He knows exactly where he is, and he knows how to get out of this country. The thought unnerves him. Idiot traveler. Soren had little desire to know where he was, though supposes it was inevitable that he remember. He started his travels when his mind was not clear, when the mourning was at its worse. It was planned that way. If he traveled without a clear destination and no recollection of his surroundings, there would be no way for the memories to return. He had desired to clear his mind.

He sighs, forcing himself to move on, watching the path recede beneath his feet. Who was the bigger fool—the traveler, for revealing his location, or himself, for believing he could forget it all?

The concept of what to do _later_ hadn't crossed his mind, until recently. When the war ended, and Crimea returned to its former glory, he and Ike left without a second thought. Ike did not reveal his plans to many—his sister, of course, who was unceasingly annoying with her tears. Titania, his second-in-command. As Soren packed his few belongings to go Ike had bid Boyd a farewell, which surprised Soren greatly. Boyd was an idiot. He hardly bothered talking to him. But someone had to care for Mist, Ike had explained, despite her protests that she needed no one. Putting on a brave face for her brother, surely.

By this point, Mist's grandchildren were probably roaming the land as well.

He prayed desperately to not find them.

It wasn't long before Soren stumbled upon civilization, a small village between forts. He stopped at a farm, bargaining for some vegetables for a small amount of gold. It did not come to much, but it was enough until he came to the next village. He knew now, after all, where that was. With his new provisions, he could last until the Begnion border.

"Need a new travel sack?" the farmer asks, watching as Soren shoved the food into the red cloth. "That thing's about to fall apart on ya."

"It's fine," he replies, sharply.

The farmer holds up his palms in defense. "Just asking, son. If it works for you."

Son? Why does everyone insist on calling him a child?

Soren leaves the village quickly, before he blows up at the farmer and reveals his true age. Ha! Wouldn't that be a surprise?

He knew the Branded were accepted into society these days, especially with The Maiden of Dawn being this country's queen. Was she still? It matters little. Point is, he _should_ feel comfortable in these beorc-ridden lands, but does not. He probably wouldn't, even if he were a proper beorc. Other people are so… irritating. Soren sighs deeply, his footsteps heavy. The nap earlier did little to alleviate his weariness, but it would be stupid to stop now that the sun was setting. If he continued this way through the night, he could arrive in Begnion the following day.

But what then?

A thought creeps into the back of his mind, a conversation years ago that has been gnawing at him recently.

_You have friends there._

He shakes it off. As soon as he crosses the border, he will go west. Not to Crimea; it would be too tempting to visit the old keep. He doesn't want to know. Maybe Gallia, though the thought of potentially seeing King Skrimir makes his blood boil. If he is still alive. Goldoa is more likely; King Kurthnaga would welcome him. But he has little desire to be _welcomed _anywhere.

Family. Pah. He had the only family he needed, and they are gone, and he doesn't need any more.

West. Just keep walking west.


	2. chapter 2

"Hey! You!"

_Why won't anyone let me sleep in peace?_

"You can't stay here."

Soren is almost embarrassed for the guard on duty. He shields his eyes, squinting against the sun as he looks upward. Despite the guard's attempt at intimidation, Soren is unfazed.

"I'm not bothering anyone," he says, not as a plea, but as fact.

"Come on," the guard says. It's obvious which one of them is begging. "Get a move on."

Grunting, Soren picks himself up, brushing the dust from his cloak. It had been two days camped out at Tor Garen, and he is honestly surprised no one has said anything previously. Turning from the guard without a word, he swings his bag of provisions mindlessly as he makes his way down the fortress wall.

He stops short and turns toward the guard, who has yet to move from his position. "The security here is terrible," he says suddenly. "Does anyone actually defend this border?"

"I do," the guard says, standing up straighter.

"Hmph." He wonders why he bothered saying anything; it was a pointless comment. Accurate, yet pointless. He shakes his head and moves again toward Begnion.

"Hey, wait," he hears behind him. "Who are you?"

"Why?" Soren doesn't turn around.

"It's just…" he pauses. "There are stories. Tales of a hero, long ago."

"I am familiar with them." He remains looking out toward Begnion; he does not want the guard to see his flushed cheeks.

"Did you know him?"

Finally Soren turns; he stands too far from the man for either to read the other's face. "How old do you think I am?"

"It's not that." The guard fumbles over his words. "But the lore says he had a companion. A mage. I don't know; I guess it doesn't make sense. I don't know why I thought of it."

Soren considers telling the truth. Revealing everything to this nameless man. After all, it has been nearly a year since he has had a proper conversation.

He changes his mind. "It's not completely ridiculous." He shrugs. "I guess they could still be alive."

Was that the best he could come up with? Crossing into Begnion, he considers everything he could have said to the guard.

Yes, it was me.

We captured this fortress once.

We left Tellius.

Your hero is dead.

Then again, perhaps it was better to leave things open-ended.

Begnion wasn't part of the plan. He always hated Begnion. But he refused to go anywhere he could be potentially comfortable, because he didn't deserve it. Self-inflicted pain. Where better to torture yourself than Begnion?

A huge shadow crosses the sun, a hawk or raven passing him overhead. Against the blazing light, it is difficult to tell which from just its silhouette. He is assumedly en route to Serenes, if he calculates correctly.

Of _course_ he calculates correctly.

Soren watches the bird grow smaller in the sky, advancing toward the horizon. A few more follow behind, catching up with their leader. Definitely hawks. A lone feather flutters to the ground not far from where he stands. He waits to see if any turn back, to stare at him as he stares at them, but they never pause in their travel. Soren resumes walking. He desperately has to find a decent place to sleep. His pouch of gold is growing lighter, but he should have enough to stay at an inn for a few nights. There has been a surprising lack of abandoned buildings along the way. In the old days, the entire mercenary company could camp at an abandoned fort for a week without anyone taking notice. Now that each country has undergone rebuilding, there are few places left for a lone traveler such as himself.

This was poor planning.

He wanders into a bustling town, dodging chattering women and their burly husbands. He passes by any open market that has food—he can't be bothered spending any more funds on provisions. He locates the town inn, inquiring after a room for a few nights. The room comes with meals; he is determined to sleep until at least supper.

As Soren makes an agreement with the innkeeper, he senses someone watching him nearby. He lowers his head as he rummages for his gold, his long hair covering his face. He is almost at the stairs toward his room when a young girl approaches him.

"Excuse me," she says, quietly. Soren, disgruntled, turns toward her. She's not unattractive. Her dark red hair falls to her shoulders, matching the color of her eyes. She clutches a heavy tome; fire, it appears. Maybe a little shy; definitely nervous about confronting this stranger.

"Can I help you with something?" Soren asks. Try to be civil.

"Are you Soren?"

It is not a question he anticipated. He stares at the girl, torn between the truth and complete ignorance. She appears to be gentle; there was no malice in her query. Only curiosity.

"Do I know you?" He asks, finally, trying to keep the contempt out of his voice.

She flashes a knowing smile, a sign of relief. "Can we talk?" Despite not knowing anything about her, including her name, he jerks his head toward the staircase to instruct her to follow. It doesn't make sense, but he hardly cares. When they approach his rented room, he is grateful that there is a small table and chair in the corner. He takes the chair, dropping his bag on the table, and she is left with only the lumpy bed to sit on.

"I'll ask again," he says, plainly. "Do I know you?"

"I'm not surprised you wouldn't remember me," she says, directing her gaze out the window. "It's been many years."

"I haven't spoken to anyone in—"

"I know," she interrupts.

"You _can't_ know."

Her tome is lying flat across her lap, and she mindlessly opens its cover. The pages are old and worn, and he is ashamed that it took him so long to realize how ancient this book is.

"Do you know what to do with that?" He asks.

"A little. Mama was a first-class mage."

"How touching." She looks up from her tome; his words have obviously stung. For once, he hadn't intended on being so . . . direct. "You might as well stop being so mysterious and tell me who you are. You obviously have my attention. No one knows my name anymore."

"So you _are_ Soren," she says, smiling down at her book. "You didn't say anything before."

"I'm aware of that."

She hesitates, staring at his face. "Amy. My name is Amy."

It still takes a moment to realize who she is. Just the name alone wouldn't have meant anything, but she mentioned her mother. And the ancient tome. Outside the Greil Mercenaries, there were few he spoke to—unless they were associated with the war.

"You weren't recruited?" he asks, bluntly.

"Funny word for it," she says. "I lived with Mama and Papa for a long time, but they're gone now. I stayed in Crimea after they passed, and our neighbors knew of my brand but didn't resent me for it."

"So it is acceptable now?" He asks. "I can't believe it."

"It took a while, I admit. I took over Mama's bar and the patrons loved me there, but some people were still uneasy with my presence. The children, especially; I could sense that they felt weird about growing older when I did not."

"So you left."

Amy smiles. "There was a standing invitation. He sought me out years ago. I wasn't prepared at the time, but now I'm ready to go to home."

Soren leans back in his chair, balancing on its two back legs with his palms pressed against the wall behind him. The brickwork is rough against his skin, and for a while it is the only thing he can concentrate on. Amy is patient. She stares out the window, but watches him from her peripheral vision. It fascinates her how little he has changed. His identity is obvious, of course, but his appearance is so near to that she remembers from so long ago. Doesn't he have dragon blood in his veins? Dragons live for centuries. She wonders how long he'll be trapped in this world.

"I need to go," she says, suddenly, rising from the bed. "Do you want to come?"

His chair falls back to the ground, the sound of its descent startling her. She fumbles the tome and it drops, emitting a puff of dust as it hits the floor.

"I have no home," he says, plainly. He watches her retrieve the book, dusting off the back cover with her cloak. "Go. It is where you belong."

"And you?" She asks, once again clutching her book. "Where do you belong?"


	3. chapter 3

Life isn't so bad when you have no obligations. Wandering the land, admiring its vast changes. No one to answer to, or take care of, and nothing to worry about. The worst has passed. He had watched him grow older, the resemblance to his father alarming, but even more difficult was the aging beyond that. They never considered what Greil would have looked like in his elder years; he was always the young, strong commander in their minds. It was expected that his son would be the same.

The number of laguz roaming the streets of Bengion surprises Soren. He knows it shouldn't. It was their work, after all, that helped mend the beorc/laguz gap. It has been nearly one hundred years since the end of that war. Prejudice is a thing known only in tales, grandparents sharing extravagant stories with their grandchildren.

He thinks of Amy. She left Crimea, anxious over the stares of the current generation. Was it paranoia, remembering the intolerance of days long passed? Or does prejudice sit dormant, waiting for an excuse to revive?

Soren looks around him. The beorc hardly see him, minding their own business. But the laguz notice. They laguz _always_ notice; they sense his presence. Or lack thereof. They say nothing, the birds and beasts that pass, but they still have a cautious eye.

He needs to get out of this town.

He has given up with the provisions bag. He's been carrying it for years, and it barely stays knotted anymore. Besides, the fabric is too fragile now to carry such heavy things as food. Soren has sold his own old, black cloak and uses his former provisions bag instead. It's an odd match, his dark clothing and the red cloak knotted at his shoulders, but it doesn't matter. It's much shorter than it used to be, having cut and hemmed the fraying edges years ago. And he made a good amount of gold off his old cloak, too. The merchant was impressed with the quality of the ancient fabric. He paid well.

Maybe too much.

But that wasn't his concern.

Soren considers stopping to rest, but has little desire to cease moving. There's a young beorc, after all, that has taken notice of him. It's unnerving. He refuses to grace her with a glance, but can see from the corner of his eye her constant following. It is not malicious, he knows, but mere curiosity. She tries to hide herself as she follows alongside, but fails miserably. He is mildly amused by it, so he allows her to continue the game for a while. But after time she is annoying. He is approaching the edge of town, and soon the land will grow more open and barren. It could be a two-day walk to the next town. Does she plan to track him the entire way?

Soren stops abruptly beyond the town's border. She has stopped following him, but watches cautiously from her hiding spot behind a tree. It appears she will not leave town, thankfully, having stopped following alongside him. Reluctantly, he glances over his shoulder.

"What do you want?"

She squeals and scrambles behind the tree, but the trunk is narrow and does not fully hide her frame.

"I can still see you." He slightly rotates his body, allowing himself a better look at the girl. Her cheek rests against the tree trunk, and he can see her face fully. She's a pretty child. Her green hair is twisted into two long braids, and she wears a simple yellow frock and apron.

"I like your cloak," she says, faintly.

Soren grabs at his cloak, making a fist. "Are you mocking me? Why do you follow me?"

"No!" Her lip quivers, and she tries desperately not to let tears fall. "I . . . I mean . . . I don't . . . Granddad told me . . ." She trails off.

He doesn't want to converse with this child. He waits for her to say something else, but she is so transfixed that she hardly seems to remember she was speaking at all. "Why don't you go home?" he finally says. When she turns to rush back toward town, he has a sudden urge to know what her granddad said. He watches her disappear into her home, unpredictably saddened by her absence.

Ordinarily he would have objected to being followed, even by a child. But her presence was almost . . . welcomed. Like she was someone he knew.

Or a grandchild of someone he knew.

Great-grandchild?

He has little desire to think about it.

He wraps himself in the oversized cloak and continues walking.

He must have passed out at some point, because he wakes up with little recollection of going to sleep. The cloak makes for an excellent blanket, not that he needs it. Soren wakes at high noon, the sun blazing in the sky overhead.

Great.

He graciously relocates to the shade of a nearby tree. It grows some sort of fruit, which he is quick to snap off. The land is growing increasingly barren, and it is unknown the next time he can stop for food. He cares little what sort of food he is eating now, only that it fills his belly. He removes his sandals, digging his toes into the soft grass before him. Despite the heat, the ground is cool and welcoming and he lies down face-up.

"I've been a fool for so long," he says, suddenly. He closes his eyes. "I always knew the day would come, and did nothing to plan for it.

"It was denial. Who wants to plan for the day your only friend departs, the one that saved you from a life of solitude and misery? Only a masochist would think about what happens after the end." He sighs heavily. "How am I expected to exist now, past the end?" He laces his fingers behind his head. "That's why I don't care."

Soren walks with the threat of tears, stubbornly pressing his cloak into the corners of his eyes so they don't fall. He carries his sandals, the sand beneath his feet easier to walk in without them. The sun has set, the desert is freezing, and there is little feeling in his feet. His focuses his thoughts only on the process of walking, of moving toward an unknown destination.

Why couldn't he have died instead? How long was he going to live in this stupid world, anyway?

He shields his eyes against a sudden sandstorm. Funny, there was no wind at all prior to the kick of the sand in his face. It disappears just as quickly. Soren bows his head, shaking the sand out of his hair. Even before he picks up his head, he senses someone standing before him.

"I knew you'd come."


	4. chapter 4

"Ike is dead."

It's the first time he has said the words aloud, and they sting.

"I know." Stefan slowly advances. His feet come into Soren's vision, and he raises his head to face him. "This is the final point for many of us. We attempt to live in a beorc world, but the heartache is much too great when those we love have died."

Soren breaks their gaze, staring off into the nothingness of the desert.

Stefan hopes for a reply, but knows better than to expect too much. Soren has hardly aged, an old man in a child's body. But the lines of his face give him away. His eyes are expressionless, his mouth set in a permanent frown. He silently cries, suddenly, the first tears he has permitted to fall since the passing of his hero.

Stefan must be careful with this one. He has been hurt deeper than most; he feels it within his own chest. "Come," he says, simply. "We've waited for you."

"I won't pretend I belong here. Or anywhere," he says, voice shaking.

Stefan nods, a small smile spread across his lips. "Understood." He abruptly turns and walks toward nothing. Soren follows, unsurprisingly, without instruction. Grann _is_, after all, the last resort. For his kind.

Stefan walks quickly, but it is no difficult task for him to keep up. He remains sans footwear, bare feet better accustomed to walk through the sands. He feels like a beggar. Bare-footed, wearing torn, dirty clothing, following a man he hardly knows for comfort—a comfort he is indifferent about, that he hardly desires. But he is long past feeling anything, so he follows mechanically. Before he can understand what has happened, a town materializes amidst the dunes. "This is impossible," he says, walking alongside Stefan.

"So it is," he chuckles. "Come, converse with me."

"I'd rather not."

"You must start somewhere."

Soren feels his sarcastic front slipping, despite his inner protests. He's _been_ to the desert. Why hadn't he seen this before? Can non-Branded view the colony in Grann?

"It's only visible to those that desire to see it," Stefan says.

"I wasn't thinking of that," he lies, defensively.

"I see." He turns toward a small cottage, pushing opening the door. "You should understand by now how in sync I am with our people." He motions for Soren to be seated at a small table. "How did I appear, after all, in the moment you crossed the desert?"

Soren stands beside a chair, hesitating a moment before he sits. "And the sandstorm?"

"Pure luck." He drops a handful of salted meat strips on the table.

"This would be infinitely easier if you wouldn't lie to me."

Stefan smiles. "Go on. Eat. I'll fetch you water." Soren takes a seat as Stefan departs the cottage, leaving him alone at the table. He looks around the sole room of the cottage. A cauldron hangs from the ceiling near an open window, the fire pit below it cold. The table can occupy two. Beside the door stands a shelving unit, seeming to house everything he may need—mugs, plates, oil, spices. Behind him lies a straw mattress, a blanket tucked neatly around the edges. Nothing adorns the walls. Soren is staring at a collection of blades, lined neatly against the far wall, when their owner returns.

Stefan slowly drops a bucket of water to the floor so he can dunk in a hefty mug to fill. As Soren makes no motion to accept the water, it is instead placed on the table before him. Stefan sits, resting an ankle on his knee to form a prop for his elbow.

Soren eyes the mug suspiciously. "The water comes from where?"

"We make do." Stefan chuckles. "It may be the desert, but our colony has endured hundreds of years."

"Do you ever give a straight answer?"

"Not until you do."

Soren snorts. "There has been nothing asked of me."

"No," Stefan agrees, "but it is implied." He drops his leg to the floor, lacing his fingers beneath his chin and resting elbows on the table. "So tell me."

Words jumble through Soren's mind, but nothing he wants to say sounds right. Nor does he know, exactly, what that is. He sets his mouth in a firm line, staring at the cauldron in the corner.

"I admire the cloak," Stefan says, breaking the heavy silence. "I hadn't recognized it at first. I am unaccustomed to seeing you… wear color."

Unintentionally, Soren has balled his fist around the cloak's edge. He forces himself to drop it. "It was the only thing I kept," he says, emotionless. He is unable to stop himself from talking; perhaps it is no longer necessary to conceal anything. Not that he formally recognizes that. "I didn't stay. I wouldn't carry anything with me. This cloak served as my provisions bag for years; I convinced myself that I needed it for that sole purpose."

"Rather than admit you're a sentimental fool," Stefan says, smiling.

"Hmph." Soren tears a strip of dried meat length-wise. "You _are_ infuriating."

"Would you like to meet some of the others?" Stefan asks, rising from his chair. "There may be some… you remember."

"No." His direct, firm answer causes Stefan to sit back down. "Not… yet." Soren slowly brings the mug to his lips, pausing before taking a sip. Prolonging the silence, waiting for Stefan to speak. But he knows it is in vain—it is his turn. Part of him have no desire to explain anything, but a larger part knows he needs someone to understand it all. The mug's journey back to the tabletop is slow, deliberate, soundless as it finally sets down.

"It was forty years ago," Soren says. He pauses, staring at the shelves behind Stefan, hands twisted in his lap. Avoiding eye contact. Stefan is silent, slowly chewing a piece of dried meat. He is mildly surprised, admittedly, that Soren has so quickly placed his trust in him. Yet he knows that he is a last resort. A lack of options.

"That's a long time to be alone," he says, finally.

Only Soren's eyes move, staring angrily into Stefan's gentle gaze. "I buried him myself."


	5. chapter 5

Stefan has heard the tale before. Not Soren's tale, specifically, but all of them. Living in beorc world. Ignoring the aging process. Watching the companion fade. The anguish, pain, the inability to cope with an inevitable future. As Soren speaks, he doesn't look Stefan in the eye. His stare is fixed on his hands, occasionally lifting his head to gaze out the window on the far wall. He rubs his eyes in irritation.

"I had nowhere to go," he says. "He was the only one I wanted to be with. I left his sword there. It was stupid. But it marks his burial site, as Commander Greil's weapon once marked his. I found it fitting. He would have liked that."

"Even though Greil's is no longer there?"

Soren glares at him. "What are you implying?"

"Nothing." Stefan shrugs and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms.

Soren mindlessly twirls a strand of dark hair between his fingers. "I don't understand why I'm telling you this. We're not friends."

"No," Stefan says. "Perhaps not."

He proceeds.

It's not the particulars of his tale that Stefan pays attention to. He _knows_ all that. But he witnesses a slight change in Soren's attitude, a softening around the edges. Forty years of this bitter solitude. The years mean nothing to Stefan, but his companion is just beginning to comprehend their extended lifespan.

"You loved him," Stefan says. Soren had stopped speaking.

"Yes."

Stefan raises an eyebrow.

"Not like that, you fool."

He raises his palms in defense. "I don't judge."

Soren sighs heavily, frustrated.

Stefan should be offended that Grann is the last resort, but has come to an understanding. He always offers, but doesn't expect an immediate reply. It is not until the Branded learn how different they are that they seek him. Could be several years. Or decades. But the moment they step onto the sands, he knows. He senses their presence, and he recognizes that someone has come for his support.

Even if the other party does not believe he needs it.

"How long am I to live, anyway?" Soren asks out of nowhere.

Stefan shrugs. "Hard to say. Dragon blood? You could survive me." He pauses. "Want to take over the colony?"

"Funny."

"I wasn't trying."

His companion examines the grooves in the tabletop, head lowered. "And you? What is your age?"

There is no reply for some time. Stefan frowns. "After time, you cease to count."

"You don't know?" Soren lifts his head.

"I didn't say that." He rises from his chair. "Come. You should be situated. It is late."

"Where?"

Stefan jerks his head toward the door. Soren follows him out, obedient, exhausted. There are people bustling about the street, visiting friends and retiring to their homes. They look curiously from the corner of their eyes at the newcomer. There is no novelty in a new neighbor; many have previously witnessed the arrival of their kin. But it has been ages since the cottage at the end of the street has been empty, waiting.

It had been reserved, though it took longer than expected for its occupant to arrive.

Soren hardly notices the space as they enter, nor does he pay attention to the comfort of the mattress he falls on to. His weariness is immediate, as if the years have finally caught up with him. He faces the wall, curling into the fetal position. He is instantly asleep, the red cloak concealing his small frame. Stefan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"You were right," a small voice says behind him. Stefan glances over his shoulder.

"About?"

"His coming here." Amy advances, mirroring his stance against the opposite doorframe. "I didn't think he would."

"You don't trust me?" he says, smirking.

"No! That's not… I mean…"

Stefan waves a hand in dismissal, cutting her off. He pulls the door closed, leaving the newcomer to sleep. "He may rest a while. It has been a difficult journey."

"More difficult than mine?" Her voice is sweet, but there is an injured undertone.

"You know I will not compare." He stares long at the closed door, Amy shifting restlessly from foot to foot. "Did you require something?"

"No…" she says, hesitantly. "I just thought… maybe not. It's too early. To talk to him, I mean."

He places a hand on her back, guiding them away. "Perhaps." Amy had mentioned her encounter with Soren, briefly, when she first arrived. The interaction was not promising, she claimed, but Stefan understood. The Branded didn't simply wander aimlessly, at least not in the direction of the desert, without a destination.

Amy bids him goodnight before retiring home, greeting several of their people on the way. She has already made friends in Grann, despite her short duration here. Her transition was fairly easy. But he recalls that first evening, when she cried into her hands over Mama and Papa, refusing to look into his eyes. Seldom do they have parents prior to arrival. He still has not determined whether a loving family is a blessing or a curse.

Stefan lingers in the middle of the path. Many people pass, but they don't acknowledge him. They know this stance. Staring at a new home, having recently departed from welcoming a newcomer. Even if they were to greet him, it is unlikely he would notice. His mind is far gone, contemplating Soren. Mentally reviewing his tale, he mulls over the best means of his settling in. But it is more than mere comfort. It is the people he will interact with, the new lifestyle he must adopt. He can picture Soren's former life in his mind, he sees the anguish like he experienced it himself. Not only is the emotion raw, it's still festering. It has been for forty years. It may never heal.

The sun rises over the dunes, and Stefan breaks out of his trance. His hands itch, feeling suddenly empty without the heft of a blade within them. It's self-conditioning, the need to spar at sunrise.

But not today. He retreats into his cottage, staring at the table at which they were seated all night. It is a necessary exhaustion, the introductory conversation. A hazing of sorts, prior to initiation. Stefan had done it before, many times, with his kindred. And he will do it again, willingly, for however long he has left.


End file.
